Saturday, January 22, 2011

I went to sleep last night riddled with fever and doped up on pharmaceuticals. I rarely take drugs. I wont even take an aspirin. But when I get deathly ill and work is piled up, I do what I need to do to get back on my feet. Mostly I consume natural and herbal antidotes and I feel pretty good about that.

In my dream I was presented with a combination of numbers that, arranged in a specific order, appeared as 311 and 44. My girlfriend and I are convinced that these numbers have some significant meaning in our lives. 311 has been a number that she sees all the time and 44 is a number I see all the time. Together, we see both of these numbers. In my half sleep I was deciphering the meaning behind it all. I had it all figured out and was looking for my Iphone on the nightstand so I could take a picture of the combination in my dream (which was on a license plate). Then I came to the realization that this was ludicrous. As utilitarian as the Iphone may be, it CAN NOT capture images in our dreams.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Jared was fat. He's always been fat. He didn't look like a muffin top so much as a flowing lava cake. Life throws some pretty mean punches without being an object of ridicule. For people like Jared, every day was an emotional beat down.

He thought things would be better after High School. When children are developing, they feel awkward and insecure. They don't know who they are and fear not having a place in their social system. They choose and distinguish inferiors in a way to establish themselves as superiors. Although savage, it's logical. But this is just a developing stage they grow out of. This trite struggle to establish ranking in the social class doesn't exist beyond High School, does it?

It most certainly does.

Jared enrolled in a community college and moved into a dorm on campus. The social structure was the same. Only now the students had a naive arrogance developed from the delusion that they had now transcended into adulthood. Jared also noticed the technique in which superiors treated the inferiors was different. It was more subtle and secretive, but stung just as bad. Nothing had changed, and Jared still went home feeling the shit kicked out of him.

The general ed classes Jared took were just a way to move forward. But he had no idea what he wanted to do for a living and the future terrified him. Outside of classes, Jared's world existed in his solitary dorm. A virgin geek palace. He'd listen to songs by "Weezer" about not fitting in while starting flame wars on movie blogs. His alias: SuaveJabba. To everyone on the other end of the fiber-optics, SuaveJabba was a god.

One day he was sitting in a Starbucks sipping down a Mocha while chatting on his favorite blog. He was debating why "Green Hornet" is the worst comic book adaptation to come out since "Daredevil". A few guys from a nearby office came in for a fuel up. Dressed in Armani suits and rogaine'd hair, this was success. He observed their behavior from behind his Ibook and noticed a familiarity. Although ten to fifteen years older than Jared's circle of peers, they acted very much the same. They still punched each other in the shoulder while laughing about last night's basketball game. They still bit their fists and gawked at a sexy blond that walked by. They even played cruel games like "Hey Chris. Until you get laid, you're buying the coffee rounds". Hiiiii-laaar-ious. "You better get out there and work your mojo".

Jared took a sip from his mocha, slurping up the whip cream sludge at the bottom. Flowing text from incoming comments reflected in shimmering blue on his glasses. A large flash of color became a distraction in the corner of his eye. He looked over to see a portly woman in a red dress enter the coffee house. If her size didn't announce her arrival, the jangle of the door bell did. The three suited men turned and noticed. It was Claire from the office.

It was like WILD KINGDOM for Jared studying the behaviors of these mysterious animals. Marlin Perkins out in the savage lands of man...STARBUCKS. Curiously, Jared watched on. The tall guy in the pink shirt welcomed her, "You needed a pick up too".

Interesting. Could it be that somewhere between the ages of 20 and 30 humans give up this game of social hierarchy? Jared watched on as the four of them chatted away appearing to be unbounded by any set of social limits. Three latte's arrived and the men left Claire smiling. As they passed by, Jared heard "Pinky" tell Chris, "You know, if it gets bad enough, you can always pork Claire." Out the window, Jared watched them as they silently laughed and made humping motions on their way back to the office. He looked over at Claire. Glowing with apple bliss cheeks she retrieved her mocha and followed. Nothing changes.

Jared entered his dorm. His video games, World of Warcraft and SuaveJabba no longer brought him happiness. He scrolled through his itunes until he found Elliott Smith (music to be depressed to). He started the playlist with "Pretty (Ugly Before)". The modern shaving razor doesn't serve any other purpose than hygienic upkeep. Maybe the current design is the result of safety evolution. Regardless, everyone has a kitchen knife.

Stripped down to his silky skin, Jared sat in his ergonomic computer chair. It was the top of the line in office furnishing to ensure utmost comfortability in order to endure long hours on your ass. Mr. Smith sang:

Sunshine been keeping me up for daysThere is no nighttime, it's only a passing phaseAnd I feel pretty, pretty enough for youI felt so ugly beforeI didn't know what to do

Jared looked down on his belly that hung over his legs. His knees poked out like two mounds on the horizon. He couldn't remember the last time he saw his own penis. It has been a constant struggle being fat. It's not that Jared was comfortable being that way. It was just so hard to change his behavior. The worse he felt about himself, the more he ate. The more he ate, the worse he looked. It was a malevolent cycle.

Sunshine been keeping me up for daysThere is no nighttime, only a passing phaseAnd I'll feel pretty another hour or twoI felt so ugly beforeI didn't know what to do

Jared took the butcher knife in his hand and pointed it down towards his Xiphoid process. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He plunged the knife deep into his bowels and slowly slit his belly open from sternum to pelvis. Out poured everything that made him fat; everything that made him a buffoon; everything that made him ashamed. For the last moments of his life, he was thin.

I felt so ugly beforeI didn't know what to doI felt so ugly beforeI didn't know what to do

Before he died, Jared exerted enough strength to post his last comment in blood on his chest. IF IT DOESN'T GET ANY BETTER...WHAT'S THE POINT IN LIVING?

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Her mother snapped as she spanked Lyndsee's hand away from the cookie dough. The seven-year-old fair-headed child sprung back, rubbing the loose skin on her hand. Her face shriveled up like silly putty into a pout. Her lower lip swelled pink and juicy while her brow furrowed like a melting candle.

Lyndsee has the ability to mold and push her face into the most abstract cartoonish expressions. She suffers from Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome (EDS) also known as Cutis Hyperelastica. This rare genetic disease results in the defective production of collagen which breaks down the ability to hold the skin together. Because of this, she has become the class clown. She gets the kids rolling with her "bat wings" impression where she clasps her checks and spans them out like wings on the side of her face. This is only one of her many infamous impressions including "choking crane" "bloated frog" and "smiling anteater".

Lyndsee's mouth pools with drool as she watches her mother mixing a chocolate chip chocolate cookie mix. Mmm mmm mmm! Finger licking good! Now if only she could get her fingers in there to try it. Her mother dumps in a tablespoon of vanilla extract. The aroma of cookie dough stings the hot kitchen air from the preheating oven.

Cookies are amazing when they are cooked. The warm crunch on the outside holds in the hot buttery chew. For this short fifteen minute period, the solid state of a chocolate chip defies the laws of physics and becomes a steaming dripping mess of goodness. This is decadence. But on the flip side, bliss is the taste of raw cookie dough. Cool, textural folds of pleasure, swelling with ingredients in their purest form. The billows of sugar-filled fluff wrap around solid clumps of tangy chocolate. Both experiences demand indulgence. Hell and Heaven.

Lyndsee watches as her mother dumps in a bag of chocolate chips. The little black babies plunge in cheering with joy. Lyndsee licks her face with the extra elasticity of her tongue. Her mother sets the mixer on high; A tempting carousal of chocolate temptation.

DLING. DLING. The phone rings in the other room.

Lyndsee is warned, "Leave it alone," just before her mother exits the kitchen.

The yakity-yak of her mother's gossip becomes muffled as the sound of the mixer grows louder in Lyndsee's head. The glass bowl whirls around, displaying every glistening chocolate chip with each rotation. At this point, the lure has Lyndsee's eyeballs pulsating. If she really was a cartoon, this would be the point she blows her smokestack. Her jaw would drop, unraveling a five-foot tongue, as horns blare A-OOGA!!!

From the living room a sound is heard similar to a car driving over a wooden bridge with open gaps and uneven planks. Quickly, a wet Shammy is ripped off the sucking hose of a vacuum. This is jammed up quickly releasing the sound of a frustrated motor unable to turn. The grunt becomes tiresome, slowing to a barely audible exasperation.

Lyndsee's mother drops the phone and runs into the kitchen. The mixer has given up, bundled up in bloody skin as if it were a scarf. On the kitchen floor lays the meaty remains of Lyndsee. Her right arm still raised in the air with her bony index finger extended. On the tip is a dollop of chocolate chip chocolate cookie dough.

Monday, January 17, 2011

I'm not one to judge when it comes to being a hater. I hate many things myself. I don't necessarily hate people, but I hate many of the actions that represent people.

I hate when people talk on cell phones at inappropriate times. Maybe not so much, because what is the difference between talking on the cell phone and talking to your present company. Maybe I just hate the type of people who do so and the crap that spills out of their mouth. While we're on the subject, I hate those little ear pieces. Maybe it's not the ear pieces that I hate because I understand that they serve a hands-free purpose. Maybe I just hate the type of people who wear them all the time because they look like cyborgs. I hate when people bring their little dogs into public buildings and cafes. Maybe it doesn't bother me so much because there isn't much of an option for dog owners when they're out with their dog. Maybe I just hate the type of people who do so proudly exercising their privilege.

As you can see, who am I to judge. I have these little negative thoughts myself that get me all fired up and end up becoming a long debate with the person I'm with.

When does hate become a positive thing? Usually hate is NEVER positive, especially when it becomes an act of violence towards an individual or a group. This usually just spreads like cancer to cause more hate and violence towards a group. Interesting how this theme is emerging on Martin Luther King day. But my focus is not about racial discrimination or violence. It is about when hate brings much amusement and humor into an individuals life.

My girlfriend and I drove up to Santa Barbara wine country to get away for the weekend. Her car has a burnt out headlamp (which I've been meaning to fix. But due to the construction of the car I have to remove the front bumper and this daunting task is easily becoming the source of much procrastination). So we've been driving at night with the high beams on. I understand that this is a slight annoyance...but it can be easily ignored...right?

So you can imagine my amusement when someone completely flips their lid. We're heading up the 101 (somewhere around Calabasas) when a pickup truck ahead of us slows down, let's us pass, merges into our lane and turns on his high beams. Okay. That's a bit proactive. Usually you'll get flashed which most likely is a courtesy to say "Hey. Your brights are on" but this was a bit ridiculous.

After a couple miles I was wondering if this was helping him therapeutically and what is the subscribed mileage (or time) length needed for the cure. Eventually, he turned off his high beams, passed us and went on his raging way.

Did the act help him? Probably not. He probably went home and spent the next hour bitching to his wife about what happened on his way home from work.

Or maybe he went on his merrily way (Having forgotten the incident altogether), kissed his wife when he walked in the door and made love to her for hours.

How should I know. Maybe I'm just as bad for focusing on this event for as long as I have, allowing it to consume so much of my thoughts and time. I mean shit...I just spent the last hour writing a blog about it.

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Our safety became uncertain when we ceased to see signs of civilization for miles. The desert canyon road weaved deeper and deeper into the mountains. Maybe movies get the best of me. I need to remember that "The Hills Have Eyes" is fiction. It's a story that someone made up to scare people. That shit doesn't really happen.

Dad doesn't seem concerned, driving the olive green with wooden panel station wagon deeper into the valley. But then again, when does he ever show emotion. My two younger brothers, Mike and Ike, are in the back bouncing off each other when they should be sitting quietly playing one of the 20 different car games that were purchased for them. My sister, Tish, is obliviously transmitting pop serum into her brain with Justin Bieber and Lady Gaga on her Ipod. My mom seems to be the only one concerned with our impeding doom. She shifts in her seat and fills the silence with irrelevant conversations. She has that nervous laughter she gets when something isn't right. It's the kind of laughter that never follows a humorous moment and isn't very uplifting. But then again, I could be speculating ALL of this. I've been known to do that now and then.

I have an issue with rusty metal sculptures. I keep picturing a burly man whose beard and head hair runs all the way down to his toes. Under the black-stained overalls he glistens from what looks like Crisco rubbed all over his flesh. But I don't think about it long enough to make any conclusions. He has a shop full of sharp and dangerous tools including mallets, jigsaws, hole punches and axes. Let's not forget table saws, drills, vice grips and oscillating tools. I don't even know what an oscillating tool is, but the name alone evokes images of pain. He's good with tools, especially wielding metal, and needs a creative outlet. These two things don't go well together.

"Hector. Look at that. How creative."

They slightly resemble deer if their anatomy was re-imagined in hubcaps and pipes, modeled after the mutated wildlife in "Prophecy". No mom. That is not silly what-so-ever.

Tish releases a twinkie from it's polyurethane wrapper and lifts it slowly to her face. Somewhere between Bieber's "Never Let You Go" and Miley Cyrus's "Can't Be Tamed", she nibbles off the head and sucks out the innards. I don't know how she can eat that shit. There's nothing edible to it. Hostess has more in common with Exxon than any food group.

We pass a rusty lawnmower abandoned off the side of the road, grazing in a patch of prairie grass. Or maybe it's a buffalo. At this point, it's becoming unclear what is metal sculpture and what is neglected scrap. A thicket of mailboxes becomes confusing considering there are only a couple trailers in sight. Then it dawns on me. THIS IS THE POINT OF NO RETURN. These twenty-some mailboxes sprouting out of the same mound mark the furthest point the mailman ventures. Inhabitants from miles around come here to get their mail. Twenty-some red metal flags stand up as a warning: PROCEED WITH CAUTION. ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER. THE STATE SHALL NOT BE HELD RESPONSIBLE TO INJURY OR DEATH RESULTING TO PERSONS TRESPASSING BEYOND THIS POINT.

We proceed. My family, the station wagon and the trailer we pull are now in the hands of the desert cannibals. Tish hasn't seen a bar on her cell phone for miles. May god have mercy on our prying souls.

The map tells us we are close. Good. We've voyaged far beyond the safety of civilization. Even the rusty metal sculptures know better than to venture into these parts. The crack house up ahead on the right is imprisoned inside a cage. It could be the remains of a nuclear fall out. Large black carnivores pace the yard with crazed restlessness. From this distance they could be Argentine Dogo or maybe genetically bred grizzly bears crossed with tigers. Dear god, I hope that's not our destination.

Nope. The trailer on the left matches the address. We turn up the driveway, passing a sign that reads PUPPIES OF LOVE. The craters and ruts that decorate the lane is a good indication that few travel this path. The trailer rocks back and forth shaking the station wagon on it's axles. Tish checks her phone for bars. It's an amusing addiction she has. Her impulse defies her own logic.

My dad pulls the station wagon onto a platform of gravel that surrounds the trailer like a mote. Gear in Park. Key turns off. All is quiet.

What now? Do we call? Do we knock? The suspense attempts murder.

A tense aluminum spring draws all of our heads forward to an opening screen door. A seventy-some year old crotchety woman comes out of the trailer holding a shotgun. Gray stringy hair hangs from her balding scalp like spiderwebs. A breeze blows through carrying a few strands off into the clouds. She hobbles towards the station wagon. Her rat tits, supported by no bra, swing back and forth. She doesn't have any teeth on her lower jaw which allows her to make turtle faces with no effort. This is Debbie, the woman we came to see.

"You here for the puppies?" She mouths.

My dad gets out of the station wagon and closes the door behind him. All the world outside this beat-up Chevy Caprice is silent. My mom starts up conversation with Tish about whether or not they have Applebees out here. I remain alert to the deal making at hand. My dad and Debbie mouth words but I can't make out what they are saying. I felt a dodge ball to the gut when my dad turns to me and fingers me to come. I lift the door handle until it screams "click". I don't remember these doors being so heavy. The hinges lurch. Even with a slight swing, the door slams shut.

The wind blows warm and with no breaks out here. My dad and this gun totting hag are frozen in their stares as I approach. The distance seems to be the same with every step I take. All of a sudden, I am beside them as my dad says, "Do you want to see them?" I can't take my eyes off the 12-gauge in her hands. I never thought this could be dangerous.

Debbie leads us with her mesmerizing swagger. "You have to watch out for rattlesnakes here," she says in witch dialect. "They'll jump out and get you."

The hair on her chin glistens with sunlight as the wind wiggles it.

"I had one jump out at me today."

We approach the tail end of a rusted old Ford pickup. "I shot him," she assures me staring into the bed of the truck. I slowly look over to find the bloody mangled mess that was once a rattlesnake opened up like a dissected worm in biology class. "It had more rattles than that. But I blew some off when I shot him".

This was one mean bitch. This is the kind of grit that no women and very few men have these days. Yessiree. This here is a rare artifact that stands before me.

But we didn't come for the dead rattlesnake. We came for what was in the 18-wheeler. She leads us up a desert hill to a parked flatbed. By the time dad and I breathlessly reach the top, she is already jiggling a key in the lock. Lock disabled. Latch unhinged. Door swings open.

Before us bubbles a furry sea of one hundred-some scrappy-fluffy puppies. To reference geek culture, this 18-wheeler has been infested by Tribbles. Everything from Cocker Spaniels, Pomeranians, Yorkies, Shih Tzus, Malteses (and every small breed in-between) happily bounce off each other yapping like a choir. The sound is glorious.

The shotgun echoes as we drive away with a trailer full of puppies. I look back to see Debbie in the distance aiming the shotgun at the ground. The bitch shot a rattlesnake. The station wagon runs over something which springs us bouncing on the hot vinyl seats. It was probably a rusty metal cat in the road. Was it scary? At times. Were our lives in danger? Most likely not. But we are going to eat like KINGS.

Wednesday, January 12, 2011

That's what I told my girlfriend when we started dating. Maybe asshole isn't the correct word. I'm a curmudgeon. I'm cynical. I'm stubborn as a mule. And I'm set in my ways. I'm not easily moved emotionally (Or maybe I just don't express it). Excitement is just a half a notch up from bored for me. I don't like change. And I HATE pets and small children.

So you could imagine the reaction I got from friends and family when I bought a 2-month-old Boston Terrier in the spring of 2010. This cataclysmic change happened for a number of reasons. First of all, my MCP brother Pete and I had been discussing getting a dog for about a year previous. It seemed like an alright thing to do at the time. And if I set my mind to doing something I sure as hell make it happen. Another reason was at the time I needed a buddy that would stand by me and remain as true blue as I.

The actual act of getting the dog came to me by fate more than anything. I knew I wanted a male Boston Terrier. I wanted to buy from a breeder rather than rescue one from a shelter. I wanted to raise the dog from a pup so that I could experience all the trials and tribulations that came along with it. I want to know that the final result (negative or positive) has to do with the choices I made as a "father".

Some time had passed and my MCP sister Christy asked when I was going to get a dog. I told her I wasn't ready yet. Her wise words are the same words you hear when people talk about having children- "If you are waiting for the right time, it will never be the right time. You just have to do it." I'm sure I completely butchered the saying in my paraphrase, but you get the idea.

Shortly after, I was at a BBQ celebrating the matrimony between two of my closest friends. A discussion broke out pertaining to dogs and I mentioned wanting to buy a Boston Terrier. Someone in the group chimed in saying "My boss is going to pick up one on Thursday". In further discussions, I found out that the breeder was only a couple hours away (which is much closer than the breeder I was looking at 13 hours away), the price was right and the dog fit my specifications to a "T". Out of the liter, they had ONE Boston left and it was a male.

Short story long, I drove up and picked up Cash (named after the "man in black" not the "notes in green"). Not only was he what I wanted, but he was healthy and had perfect Boston markings. We've been side by side now for almost a year. Even though he has his "puppy" moments, he is a good kid. Surprisingly, I've grown to love him more than anything or anyone else in my life.

That may be harsh to say having siblings, two living parents, the MCP crew and my selfless girlfriend who never ceases to amaze me. But there is a love that grows from raising a living creature. Cash is alive because I feed him and take care of him. Now I know what unconditional love is. So last night, when I dreamt that Cash got his throat ripped out by a mountain lion and I held him in a pool of blood, you can understand why I cried.

I still hate dogs and small children. But damn it, my dog is the best.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

I'll be the first to admit my shortcomings (if I accept them as shortcomings). I'll also be the first to defend myself if I feel that my actions are being misconstrued as shortcomings when actually they are my personal eccentricities. As much as I romanticize about keeping a personal blog I've been completely incompetent at being faithful to this task. The convenience of social networks like Facebook and Twitter allow an easy way to sign on, jot down, get off. This format has become a preference of mine. Although I have to say I am fazing out Myspace due to my intolerance towards failing interfaces. If anyone cares to defend this recent makeover, please do.

As you can see, 2010 brought in two posts. TWO POSTS! Not only did I fail to contribute on a regular bases, the two posts that I did accomplish were copy/paste from my fan Nooseletter. I didn't even bother to log in and write anything specific. This cannot stand!

Here is my 2011 resolution: I will put forth my best efforts at logging into my personal account to write specifically for this Blog, if time allows, not to be held accountable for the possible lack of posts due to personal obligations. I will focus on original content pertaining to daily rants, the occasional tirades, and creative writing. This will not be a platform to copy/paste monthly newsletters or postings from subsidiary blogs (www.grisgrimlysfrankenstein.com). This shall endure to the best of my abilities as long as convenient circumstances allow.

In other words, I'm kicking myself in the ass to deliver a new and better Gris Grimly blog.